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“Interview’s over.” Ghost stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed through my ears, leaving me trembling in its wake.
I’d tried so hard not to allow my professional judgment to be clouded by my growing feelings for Ghost that I’d gone too far in the opposite direction and lost my sense of compassion in the pursuit of the story.
“Damn it,” I whispered to myself, running a hand over my face. I knew I needed to find Ghost and apologize, try to salvage what was left of our relationship — both personal and professional. For the next hour, I searched the hotel, knocked on his bandmates’ doors, and even checked the bar and lounge areas, but there was no sign of him.
The weight of my actions settled heavily on my shoulders as I realized that Ghost was nowhere to be found. What had I done? Had I just ruined everything between us because I let my desire to write a sensational story get the better of me?
I sighed deeply, knowing that I had to face the consequences of my choices. All I could do now was hope that Ghost would eventually be willing to hear me out and give me a chance to make amends. With each step I took through the hotel, my guilt grew heavier.
I returned to his hotel suite, hoping he might have come back. The door was still closed, and when I knocked hesitantly, there was no response. My heart sank even further, but I couldn’t just give up. I sent him a text message, apologizing for my actions and asking if we could talk.
Time seemed to crawl by as I waited in the hallway outside his room. Each passing minute felt like an eternity, my thoughts consumed with regret and worry. When he didn’t return my text, I headed back to my hotel room. Sound check was in a couple of hours and I decided I would go, just to apologize before his show.
When I arrived at the venue, I spotted him immediately. He was standing on stage, leaning on the mic stand, but something was off. His movements were uncoordinated and sluggish, his eyes glazed over — he was visibly drunk.
“Hey, mate, just take it easy,” Knox said, trying to steady Ghost as he stumbled forward. “We’ll help you sober up before the show.”
Watching from a distance, my heart clenched with guilt. This was all my fault. I had pushed him too far, and now he was hurting. He obviously had a lot of unresolved feelings about his stepbrother’s death, and I’d just callously opened those wounds up again. As much as I wanted to rush to his side and apologize, I knew that now wasn’t the right time. Instead, I retreated to the VIP section to watch the concert unfold.
Despite his intoxication, Ghost managed to perform — his raw talent shining through, even in his compromised state. The crowd went wild as he sang, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil simmering beneath his magnetic persona.
His uncharacteristic aggression, however, didn’t go unnoticed. Midway through the concert, Ghost kicked over his mic stand in a fit of anger, sending it crashing to the floor. The audience cheered wildly, their eyes glued to the spectacle unfolding before them.
“Here’s a song called Poison,“ he announced, his voice dripping with venom as he glared into the crowd. “Dedicated to a reporter I like to call Little Miss Fake News.” My stomach twisted into knots, realizing he was talking about me. I had found some information that he’d kept locked away and he was using the only outlet he had to express his pain — his music.
From the VIP section, I watched helplessly as Ghost continued to perform, each note breaking my heart a little more. I knew I had gone too far, and now the consequences were playing out for all to see. The guilt weighed heavily on me, like an anchor around my neck, dragging me down into a sea of regret.
Between songs, I could see Ghost chugging from a bottle, his bandmates trying their best to intervene and sober him up. But there was no stopping him now. He was a man on a mission, using the alcohol to numb the pain I had inadvertently caused.
As the concert drew to a close, the crowd continued to cheer and scream for more, but their adoration was tainted by the knowledge that I had done this to him. My foolishness had driven Ghost to the brink, and it was all because I put my ambition over decency.
“Thank you, goodnight!” Ghost shouted into the microphone as the final chords of the encore rang out. He stumbled offstage, the weight of his pain and intoxication finally catching up with him.
At that moment, I knew I couldn’t just stand there in the VIP section any longer. It was time to face the music, so to speak, and try to make amends for my actions. I had to find Ghost and apologize, even if it meant putting my heart on the line.
After the concert, I watched as Knox and Ryder half-carried, half-dragged Ghost back to the tour bus. His body seemed to sway and stumble, a testament to the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed earlier. They were clearly worried about him, just as I was.
“Hey,” I called out, jogging over to them. “Can I talk to him for a minute?”
Knox raised an eyebrow, skeptical of my intentions, but eventually sighed and stepped aside, allowing me access to the sanctuary where they hid away their wounded star.
“Fine, but don’t take too long,” he warned, casting a wary glance at Ghost before turning away.
“Thanks,” I murmured, stepping up into the cramped space.
Ghost was slumped on one of the couches, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. He looked so vulnerable, so broken. It tugged at something deep within me, stirring a protective instinct I didn’t know I had. He glanced up when he heard me approaching, his face contorting with anger.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded, his words slurred slightly.
I sat down across from him. “Ghost, please,” I pleaded, “I just want to talk.”
“About what? How you fucked everything up?” He sneered, looking away from me.
“Actually, yes,” I said softly. “But first, I want to tell you about something that happened to me a few years ago.”
“Go away,” he mumbled, trying to turn away from me. But I persisted, the desperation and sincerity in my voice impossible for even him to ignore.”Please, Ghost. You need to hear this. I ... I want to explain.”
He frowned but didn’t object, so I took a deep breath and began my story. “I may be just an entertainment reporter, but I take my craft very seriously. I’m a journalist first. Entertainment reporters are looked down on by many — they’re deemed not important — as people who produce fanciful, dumbed-down fluff. ‘Real’ journalists tend to look down their noses at journalists like me as the ones providing entertainment to pacify the unwashed masses, while the smart people do the real work. And some of that is true and maybe I take my work too seriously, but I don’t offer up gushing profiles of artists; I like to offer deep and meaningful insights to my readers.”
